Ford’s POV
The crash of weights is still fucking with my head two days later.
Not because of the noise, because of what almost happened right before it. Again. The way Sienna looked at me in that empty gym, lips parted, eyes wide, close enough that I could feel her breath on my lips.
The moment when every professional boundary I've constructed went up in flames and I almost kissed her like my career depended on it.
Instead of ending because of it.
My palms were sweaty, throat tight, every cell in my body screaming to close that last inch of distance between us. But I didn't. Couldn't.
She turned away without a word, and I let her, because what else was I supposed to do? Chase after her like some desperate asshole and explain that I've been losing my mind over someone I'm supposed to be coaching?
Training the next day is all business on the surface, but underneath it's a fucking disaster.
I keep my distance, focus on her form and timing, make corrections with the kind of professional detachment that should win me awards for acting.
But the way my eyes linger too long when she moves, the way my stomach clenches when she avoids looking at me—I'm not fooling anyone, least of all myself.
I know that feeling.
"Clean up your entry," I tell her during beam work, trying to sound like a coach instead of someone who's been mentally replaying almost kissing her for forty-eight straight hours. "You're throwing your hips too far forward."
She nods curtly and resets without responding. Doesn't need to, actually, I can read the tension in her shoulders, the anger in every movement.
And I hate that I might be part of what put it there.
Two nights later, I'm staying late again because apparently my personal boundaries are as nonexistent as my professional ones. I know she'll be here too.
Part of me hopes she'll leave early for once, but let's be honest—neither of us is known for making smart decisions lately.
Sure enough, I find her on uneven bars, pushing through dismounts she has no business repeating this many times in a row.
"Sienna, that's enough," I call out, already moving toward her.
"I've got one more," she says, breath clipped, voice tight with the kind of stubborn determination that's about to get her hurt.
"No, you don't."
But she's already launching into the set anyway, because listening to reasonable advice would be completely out of character. Her swing is too fast, timing half a beat off, and I see the disaster happening a second too late.
Her feet hit the mat wrong, knee twisting beneath her as she goes down with a cry that shoots through my spine like a bullet.
Fuck.
I'm beside her in seconds, all adrenaline and panic masquerading as professional concern.
"Talk to me. Where does it hurt?" I ask, kneeling down, forcing myself not to touch anything until I know what we're dealing with.
Her face is pale, eyes clenched shut. “My knee… just twisted. I think it’s okay.”
Here we fucking go again.
"We're going to the therapy room," I say. "No arguments."
For once, she doesn't argue. I guide her slowly through the hallway, her arm around my shoulder, my hand supporting her waist.
She feels smaller against me than she should, more fragile, and all I can think about is how badly I want to protect her from everything, including herself.
The therapy room smells like antiseptic and regret.
I lower her onto the padded bench and grab an ice pack, switching into the kind of methodical care that hopefully disguises how much my hands are shaking.
"Take off your sock and brace," I say, kneeling down. "Let me see."
She hesitates. "I can do it."
"I know. Let me anyway."
After a beat, she gives in and lets me pull everything off. Her knee is already swelling, and I curse under my breath because this is exactly what I was trying to prevent.
"Relax your leg," I say, applying ice with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be.
She flinches, breath catching. "It's not as bad as it feels. I've had worse."
"That's not the point." I look up at her, my hand still on her knee. "You shouldn't have been doing that set tonight. You've been driving yourself into the ground all week."
"I was fine," she mutters, but we both know it's bullshit.
"No, you weren't!" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "You're not fine, Sienna. Stop repeating that."
She meets my eyes finally, and there's something raw there, fear, maybe, or recognition that her usual defenses aren't working anymore.
"Why didn't you tell me something was off?" I ask, gentler now.
"Because I didn't want to make it real," she says. "If I say I'm tired, then I'm weak. If I admit I'm scared, then it's over."
Jesus Christ, what did George do to her?
"Being scared doesn't mean you don't belong here," I say. "It means you're human."
She blinks fast, eyes glassy. "You always say the right thing."
"Trust me, that wasn't always the case." I adjust the ice gently, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. "I used to be an asshole who thought pushing through pain was the same as being strong."
She lets out a soft laugh, more breath than sound. "You're not the coach I thought you were..."
"I'm not sure I am either anymore." My hand is still on her knee.
I should move it. Don't want to. And she's not pulling away, which is either a very good sign or a very dangerous one.
"You scare me," she says after a moment, voice barely audible.
Good. You terrify me too.
"Why?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
"Because I don't want to need you."
The admission hits like a sucker punch. I swallow hard, trying to find words that won't make this more complicated than it already is.
"Then don't," I say, but my voice cracks just enough to make it a lie.
We stay like that—her sitting on the bench, me kneeling between her legs with my hands on her injured knee, both of us pretending this is purely medical while the air between us crackles with enough electricity to power the entire building.